He had glanced at five more telegrams which came from the police who lived in towns where trains stopped. They all denied any knowledge of the Members of Parliament.
“I was saying,” said Jimmy, “that maybe since the gentlemen that’s wanted can’t be found, the ones they’d be sending over to us from Glasgow might be some comfort to the ladies. Susy Lizzie, what are you doing standing there with a grin on your face that a man could post a letter through? Aren’t you ugly enough the way God made you without twisting the mouth that’s on you into worse than it is? Get back with you and mind the telegraph machine. I hear it ticking away there as if the devil was in it. Be off with you now, and don’t let me be obliged to speak to you twice. I was saying, Mr. Goddard——”
“I heard what you were saying,” said Mr. Goddard, “and I never heard greater nonsense in my life.”
He was scattering more pink papers on the floor as he spoke. Every railway station about which he inquired had been drawn blank.
“Do you suppose,” he went on, “that a lady like Mrs. Dick, who has been crying the whole day because she’s lost her husband, would take up straight off with any strange man the police happened to send her over from Glasgow? Have some sense, Jimmy.”
“It’s them ones that cries the most,” said Jimmy, “that is the quickest to get married again if so be there’s anybody willing to take them.”
“I don’t deny that,” said Mr. Goddard; “but, hang it all! you must give her time to make sure that the first one’s really dead. I don’t believe he is myself. Damn it all! look at this.”
He held out a telegram, the last of his batch, to Jimmy O’Loughlin.
“From Inspector-General of Police. Matter of disappearance of Members of Parliament serious. Keep news out of papers if possible. Am leaving Belfast to-night. Shall reach Clonmore to-morrow noon. Meet train and report.”